Chapter 12
Mud squeezed between Gellir’s toes as he waded toward the eel net set in the murky brown shallows of the pond. He lifted the net. It was empty.
“’Tis two days now,” he bit out. Choosing a spot in the shade of an elm, he submerged the net again and anchored it with a rock. “’Tis clear she’s avoiding me.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, daring Merraid to contradict him.
Merraid shrugged, unaffected by his peeved gaze. “Then ’tis up to ye to make her feel welcome.”
“Pah! She obviously doesn’t want this alliance any more than I do.”
The words were bitter in his mouth. He’d die before he’d admit it. But under the armor guarding his heart lurked a wee lad who yearned for the kind of loving marriage his parents had. He’d always said it made no difference. But the idea of a loveless marriage weighed heavily on him now.
“Ye great tomfool,” she said, “how could she not want this alliance? Ye’re the finest warrior in Scotland. Born into a distinguished and wealthy clan. And,” she added, stealing a glance at his bare legs, “ye have knees that would turn any lady’s head.”
He smirked. Even if that wasn’t true, it was good to hear her say so. “Apparently, I’ve turned the lady’s stomach.” He sighed and muttered, “Maybe she’s deathly ill and will die ere she has to suffer my presence again.”
Merraid gave him a chiding punch in the shoulder. “Do not wish such things,” she scolded. “She’ll be well soon enough.”
“She’ll either be well…or well pickled.” Why the lady insisted pickled eels were the cure for her sickness, he didn’t know. But his bride’s appetite was the reason he was up to his knees in icy water. He was attempting to catch more of the slithery black beasts to replenish Feiyan’s stores.
“I’ve been thinkin’,” Merraid said, watching him from her perch on a mossy boulder. “What would ye do if Carenza had ne’er come to Darragh? If she lived in a faraway land? And ye couldn’t meet face-to-face?”
He shrugged. “We would correspond by missives, I suppose.”
“Right. Ye’d have to woo her with words, aye?” She brightened. “So that’s what ye should do. Ye should send a missive to her.”
“A missive?” He arched a brow at her. “Why? I could just shout at her through the door.”
“Silly cad,” she sneered, throwing a pebble that hit him in the chest. Then she wrapped her arms around her bent legs and gazed dreamily across the loch. “Nay, ye must write her beautiful verse. Somethin’ extollin’ her virtues and expressin’ your love.”
“Verses?” He shuddered. She may as well suggest he eat beetles. “I don’t write verses.”
“I do.”
He frowned. “You do?”
Because he was destined to be laird, Gellir had learned to read and write. Mostly legal agreements and royal orders. But only a few of his fellow warriors were literate. And aside from his clanswomen, he could count on one hand the lasses he knew who could read.
“Is there anything you can’t do?” he asked sincerely.
She smiled, clearly pleased by his praise. Then she answered, “I can’t catch eels.”
He snorted. “Apparently, neither can I.”
He retrieved the net. It came up empty again.
She rested her chin atop her knees, contemplating the rushes growing at the edge of the loch.
“The missive would have to be in your hand,” she informed him.
He shook his head. “I told you I can’t write verses.”
“But that’s the beauty of it. Ye won’t have to. I’ll help ye. I’ll recite the words. Ye can write them on the parchment.”
He lowered his brows. “It sounds deceitful.”
“It sounds romantic. And this way, she won’t be afraid o’ ye the next time ye meet.”
She had a point. This marriage had been rushed. They’d had little time to get to know each other. He had to convince his bride he wasn’t a filthy brute. Only then would she recover from her illness and agree to meet him in the flesh.
“Very well,” he said. “If I can ever manage to fill this basket, we’ll write her a missive, aye?”
“Aye.” Her eyes lit up with mischief. She scrambled down from the boulder. Then she pointed to a clump of rushes about five yards from where he stood.
“There,” she said. “The eels usually hide at the bottom o’ the thick rushes.”
The little minx had known it all along. “I thought you said you couldn’t catch eels.”
She gave him the saucy, wicked smile he’d come to cherish. A smile that lingered in his mind’s eye. Even after he filled the basket. Even after they trudged back to Darragh.
He wondered if his bride-to-be had a smile like that. A smile that quickened his heart. That warmed him from head to toe. That made him feel treasured and adored and alive. A smile impossible to resist.
“I long to gaze into your lovely eyes…”
Merraid ambled past the barrels in the storeroom. The candle flickered on Gellir’s makeshift table, fashioned out of a crate. They needed privacy for this clandestine endeavor. Somewhere no one would interrupt them. And the ale cellar was the most private place she could think of.
Gellir dipped the quill in ink. “I long…to gaze…into…your lovely eyes,” he recited as he carefully scrawled the letters onto the parchment. “Go on.”
“Like sparklin’ gems set in the midnight skies.”
He nodded. “Like sparkling gems…set in…the midnight skies,” he said, copying down the words. “That’s quite good.”
Of course it was good. It was inspired. All she had to do was draw on her own feelings for Gellir. Use words that would charm Lady Carenza. Express his affection in a way that was polite yet persuasive. Assure the lady she was making the right decision in marrying him. And make it rhyme.
“Aye?” he prompted.
She cleared her throat. “To see the light of love there, sweet and wise…”
“To see…the light…of love…there?”
“Sweet and wise.”
“Sweet…and…wise. Aye, I think I’ve got the pattern of the rhyme now. Don’t tell me,” he said. “And swiftly delve between your lovely thighs?”
His coarse jest was so unexpected, Merraid burst into laughter. Covering her mouth in amused horror, she gave him a punitive kick.
“Shh!” he warned.
“Ye scoundrel,” she hissed. “Now ye’ve made the next line go right out o’ my head.”
He grinned. Then he cleared his throat and whispered, “Here’s what we have so far. I long to gaze into your lovely eyes, like sparkling gems set in the midnight skies, to see the light of love there, sweet and wise…”
“Ah. And hear the tender music o’ your sighs.”
As he began writing the words, Merraid heard a muffled sound beyond the door.
“Hist!” she said, freezing. Was someone there?
They remained motionless for several moments. She heard nothing else.
“Maybe ’twas a mouse,” she breathed.
He nodded, then finished penning the line.
She began pacing again. It helped her to think.
“I long to glimpse your smile…”
He copied silently.
“So warm and bright,” she said.
She tapped her lip. What rhymed with bright? Fight? Might? Shite?
Light, she decided. “As welcome as the winter sun’s first light.”
“Ooh,” he cooed in approval. “You do have a way with words.”
She blushed. It wasn’t hard to write about love when the object of your affections was right in front of you. Gellir’s smiles were nearly as rare as winter sun. But she secretly treasured every one.
He crossed the final T and looked up. “Aye?”
“To listen to your laughter takin’ flight…”
He dipped the quill and wrote carefully. When he finished the line, he sighed. “You’re sure this is going to work?”
“O’ course.” What woman didn’t like to be wooed with words?
He nodded. “Go on.”
“Like flocks o’ sparrows,” she said, smiling at the imagery, “chasin’ off the night.”
He moved the page up so he could continue writing. “Flocks of sparrows,” he echoed as he transferred her words onto the page.
She tucked her bottom lip under her teeth. Good verse was like effective fishing. The lady had been lured with compliments. Now it was time to set the hook with subtle seduction.
“I long to take your hand and hold ye near,” she said, running a fingertip along the top of a barrel.
He raised a skeptical brow, but she nodded.
When he finished, she continued, ambling thoughtfully toward the door. “To whisper words dispellin’ all your fear…”
He wrote the line. Then he rested the quill in the ink bottle to flex his cramped hand. He obviously wasn’t in the habit of writing long missives. Picking up the quill again, he told her, “All right.”
She leaned back against the door, letting the words spill directly from her heart. “And murmur soft devotions in your ear…” she choked out.
“In…your…ear.” He seemed to copy the words by rote, paying little heed to their meaning. She supposed that was just as well. “Aye?”
“In breathless wait,” she murmured, “for what my heart would hear.”
Her eyes blurred as emotion washed over her. Merraid knew exactly what her heart wanted to hear from Gellir. That he didn’t care what king and clan demanded. That he loved her. That he couldn’t live without her.
But those were words Gellir would never say. And if the truth be told, his uncompromising sense of chivalry was what she loved best about him. She wouldn’t have him any other way.
“Is that all?” he inquired after her long pause.
“Oh. Nay.” She pressed her palms into her eyes, scrubbing away the burgeoning tears. “Let me think.” The hook was set. Now came gently coaxing the fish out of familiar waters. Into his waiting hands.
“I long to make ye mine,” she said, her voice cracking as she added, “my dearest heart.”
He hesitated, then whispered, “You don’t think that’s too…” He grimaced. “Too intimate?”
She shook her head. He’d be swiving the lady within the fortnight. If he thought her verse was too intimate…
He inked the quill. But he looked uneasy as he transferred the personal sentiments to the page.
She turned away, facing the door, and crossed her arms protectively over her aching heart. “’Tis anguish…every moment we’re apart.”
The air was so still, she could hear the scratching of his quill as it carved her feelings onto the parchment.
“Go on?” he said.
She swallowed back her sorrow and continued. “Since ye alone have power to make me whole…”